she was right.

She was right I thought,

About towns holding on more than we do-

Longer than we can.

The wood in the ceilings

Inside of the bars, are bookshelves for memories.

No matter how hard you try

They cannot be erased.

How could they? With time they

Erode but become new again, with sudden and accidental polish

Shining like the oldest street lamp that marks our way home.

Everyone returns to the places they’ve been,

As though to look back in the mirror, one last time.